


all eyes on you

by truce



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Best Friends, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pain, Sad Harry, Soulmates, but not really, oh my god i love angst, that's all really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 02:26:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14684502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truce/pseuds/truce
Summary: They’re fated – that, in some odd, twisted parallel universe. That is, if one believed in the abstract concept of fate and god forbid,soulmates, as much as the other one does. But, there’s no use relying on the stars, the heavenly bodies, or the absurdity of the universe to craft wonders for them, because the universe fucking hates them, for reasons they both don’t understand, and the universe keeps sending out its best stars to keep them apart.(Louis is new to town; Harry's lived in it forever).





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> all i can say is: i missed writing and the liberty that comes with it. i realised that i write best when i craft absurd fiction about my two biggest muses -- so thanks a lot to louis and harry and their constancy. i'm not really after anything; it doesn't matter if this doesn't get much reads (even if i'm my own sole reader, i wouldn't be disappointed). but i just wanted to get my best story (in my eyes) out, without having to put it through an emotional beating, so i think here it is. 
> 
> first thing i've written with actual chapters. no deaths, i promise. but pain, well, pain is inevitable, isn't it?
> 
> if you need a song that encompasses the overall theme of the story and maybe even inspired me to write again, give "all eyes on you" by alice boman a listen (hence, the title). painfully beautiful piece. i wish i could revel in those words forever. 
> 
> thanks for reading. thanks for being a part of it.

The wind whirls past Louis – the feathery strands of his hair blow out against his temple and back against the nape of his neck, causing a light shiver to rush through him. His hands are fully exposed, unclothed, tightly gripping onto the handles of his packed duffel. His eyes, seemingly taking on a duller shade of cerulean blue in the cold, are trained on an old, exposed-brick duplex that houses his own place, his _very_ own space. 

A smile etches itself onto his proud face the moment he gazes upon his small balcony situated on the second floor – white-railed and tainted. It’s not the most astounding sight to behold, but that doesn’t matter because he’s already got his plans laid out in the metaphorical table in his head – he’s going to lay succulents on the ledge (the fake ones, of course, because he can’t be bothered to master keeping house plants alive), he’s going to cook himself up a sinful plate of grilled cheese sandwiches every Saturday morning and he’s going to eat them by the edge, aimlessly watching the cars pass by the narrow road ahead of him, and he’s going to meet the love of his life – together, they’ll exchange kisses by the rails at midnight and engage in idle conversation about the oddities of the universe by the time the sun comes out to peek. It’s going to be wonderful and –

“Oi!” A hoarse, slightly aggravated voice calls out into the open air. Louis recognizes it as his cab driver’s, one that he’s grown quite familiar with following his two-hour ride. “Where do I put your bags?”

“Just on the front steps, thanks!” Louis replies, yet his gaze has not once faltered from the house stationed right in front of him. It’s _surreal_ , he thinks. He’s finally got his own place; well, he’s nose deep in new loans trying to pay off the initial for this space, but it’s a house of his own nonetheless. He thinks of all the possibilities – he could cook his own late breakfast at 2 ‘o clock in the afternoon, he could bury himself in his sheets all day without having to endure an earful questioning his life choices, he could sing overly-played pop songs (even mimic the instruments if he wants to) at the top of his lungs without waking up his herd of six sisters and his mother – there’s just an endless list of them, and Louis could not name them all. 

The interior is barely furnished, as agreed upon by him and the lessee. The basics are there – a dining set with two chairs, a wardrobe cabinet in the bedroom, a blank bed frame, and a worn couch. He _loves_ it. 

It’s now later into the night, dawning into the hour of eight o’ clock, and Louis hasn’t made a significant dent into his unpacking. It’s odd, that. He hasn’t got much stuff to unpack anyway, but Louis is a firm believer in taking nice, long breaks as a reward for fairly short “exhausting activities”. He’s managed to set out his coffee machine, at least, so he fixes himself up a brew and pours the steaming liquid into his favorite chipped, teal, ceramic mug. He knows he shouldn’t be having so much coffee in a day, especially within a few hours from each other, because Louis’ got the biggest obsession with coffee, but the lowest caffeine tolerance in the world – he won’t be able to sleep for a good night, but he doesn’t think about that now. 

He steps out into his small balcony, the width of the stepping ground leaving enough room for his feet to fit in. He leans over the railing, still cradling his mug. The town is quiet, just as quiet as it was when he first arrived – the sky has taken on a challenging shade of midnight blue now, tainted with none but a few stars that seemed to be fading by the minute; a car comes to a halt right below him, and a young woman in a structured coat alights and heads off into the opposite direction; in the distance, Louis hears the vacant sound of makeshift drums being played. It then hits him. This is his life now – everyday, he’s going to wake up to the silent wonders of the morning and he’s going to tread nearly empty streets on the way to his university. The view that fills his vision is the one he’ll be seeing for the next four years, maybe less if he can’t make it through, maybe more if he decides to stay.

With a head full of fickle thoughts and a stomach full of coffee, he heads back inside, making sure to lock the balcony shut as he goes. It’s a silent town, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe. He decides to dress down in comfier clothes, as he knows that it’s going to be a long, long night and he doesn’t want to still be wearing his tight jeans and his good sweater. A shower seems pretty good too, what with the excruciatingly long car ride and the bag and box hauling he just did. He pads about the house, looking for the smallest bag that he brought with him – it’s light blue and no bigger than his head, and yet all he could see around him were large dull duffels. He searches every room, opening up every one of his bags to see if he’d stuffed it somewhere amidst the packing rush – it wasn’t there. In fact, he couldn’t find it anywhere. 

“Ah, fuck.” He must have left it back home in his mom’s place, maybe even in the cab, or maybe he never really had it at all, he doesn’t know. All he could think about at this point was that all his toiletries and towels were in that small kit, and now he’s got nothing to use. Just his luck, he figures. 

He fishes out his phone from his back pocket, searching up nearby grocery stores that he could make a quick stop to because the universe just loves to mess with Louis, doesn’t it? He spots one a couple of blocks down, about a five minute walk from his apartment, and he decides it best to go out now before the late night catches up to him. 

And so here he is, walking about in desolate streets at 9 o’ clock in the evening, just trying to purchase a toothbrush and soap, just his average weekday. 

It’s a quaint, little convenience store in the corner of 8th and 34th, its exterior barely illuminated by a sorry street lamp which flickers every two minutes. The inside looked fairly dim, even a little sketchy if you ask Louis, but he figures he’s got no other choice seeing as it’s late and the bigger stores would’ve been closed hours ago. He enters the store and a tiny buzz goes off, signaling the entrance of a customer. A single man occupies the space behind the counter, looking much like he doesn’t want to be there. A few other people crowd the store, so that leaves Louis feeling a little more assured.

He heads straight towards the toiletries where another man seems to be stationed in front of, as well. 

“Last minute shopping?” Louis pitches in, trying to instigate small talk with the man beside him and okay, Louis knows he’s starting conversations under pretty odd circumstances, but he’s new to town and he’s got zero locals in his mental contact list – if anything, he wants to get acquainted with at least a handful of people. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll make his adjustment process a lot easier. 

“Mm,” the other man answers, and _uh_ , Louis thinks, _that’s that_. The man’s facial features are covered by the dark shadow cast by his beaten paperboy cap. He’s got dark, brown, curly strands of hair tucked away behind his ear and inside his cap and a broad, structured frame fitted inside a large, dark gray, knee-length coat. He looks oddly focused on choosing soap, as his hands keep lingering over a variety of boxes, constantly switching between brands. 

“I’m new to town,” Louis says, and he doesn’t quite know why he just did. The other man clearly doesn’t want to talk, and Louis should just be out here purchasing groceries in an attempt to get him through his hygienic night. It’s just – Louis has always been chatty. He loves the flow of conversation that goes between people, he loves learning stories and telling some of his own in return, he loves meeting new faces and growing familiar to them, and he certainly loves the feeling of company. 

“Good for you.”

That’s all Louis gets before the other man finally settles on a soap box and tosses it into his decently filled basket, then leaves to visit a different aisle. _Alright_ , now under usual circumstances, Louis would deem that quite rude. Then again, it’s half past nine in the evening and it’s a work day, so a pool of grumpy students and businessmen is expected. Instead of having the thoughts linger for far too long, he does what he came here to do which is to pick up some toiletries and head back. Honestly, he’s not too picky, so he takes whatever looks durable and tosses it into his basket. He heads over to the counter to pay, hoping to make it back to his apartment before ten. When he walks towards the counter, however, the same man that ignored his wonderful attempts at conversation overtakes him and immediately sets down his basket on the counter, lightly bumping Louis in the process. 

Louis scrunches his nose up at the man, obviously bothered by the action. Being his outspoken self, he sure wants to give the other man a piece of his mind, but he decides against it. He’s new to town, and he sure doesn’t want to be labeled as ‘that-one-hot-tempered-new-guy-that-throws-fits-in-convenience-stores’ – that’s going to stick. So, he takes a deep breath and composes himself; instead, he resorts to glaring at the back of the stupid paperboy cap man’s head, hoping to singe his hair with his fiery gaze (one day it’ll happen, Louis knows it). The other man heads out after completing his purchase, then disappearing into the night. 

_Whatever_ , Louis thinks. Maybe the other locals are much nicer than this; maybe he just so happened to stumble upon the rudest of the packed bunch, but surely the rest of the town could offer a bit more warmth and welcome. Besides, he doesn’t have to see this man again if he doesn’t want to – it may be a small town, but he’s sure he can avoid seeing such a closed-off man for the rest of his stay. 

The walk home seems much shorter than his previous one, and maybe that’s a result of his growing familiarity with the roads and turns. It’s now that he takes it all in – the chipped pavements and compact apartments, the abundance of stray cats and their faint calls for contact, and the way the sky seems to fall lowly onto the town, coating each structure with the quaint glow of the steady moonlight. It’s beautiful, in its own way. Of course, it’s no big city like Louis’ old home, so there’s that, but Louis can learn to love this. 

Once he reaches his side of the duplex where he lives, he notices that there’s someone else standing on the porch of the opposite side. He hears the sound of keys rattling and paper bags from that side and Louis knows he’s not imagining it. He squints his eyes in a feeble attempt to get a clearer picture of the mystery figure – it’s not that he’s nosy, no, but he just wasn’t aware that there was someone else occupying the other side of the duplex. After all, his lessee didn’t mention it in any of their conversations and transactions, so this was big news to him. He’s not bothered or anything. Besides, a neighbor might just be what Louis needs – someone to show him the ropes of the town and maybe give him tips on settling in. Louis reaches his own door and he turns the key into his lock quite easily, whereas the man opposite him seems to be struggling. 

“Hey!” Louis calls out to the other man. “Need any help there?”

The struggling man looks up at Louis, and from the dim lights offered by the nearby street lamps; Louis can make out his face. A wave of recognition floods Louis’ face upon seeing the familiar features that he had just witnessed in the store a number of minutes back, and he’s not quite sure what to feel or say in the heat of the situation, but he certainly does not intend to say –

“Shit.” The universe just absolutely _adores_ Louis, doesn’t it?


	2. ii.

It could be deemed a stroke of bad luck – that, or maybe some divine forces in the universe are plotting Louis’ eternal suffering right there and then. When Louis steps right into his home, he trips over the doormat and falls face flat onto the wooden floor. He stays there for a minute or so, just reveling in the pain of his fall and the crushing fact that his duplex is also going to be inhabited by the very same man that gets indecisive about fucking _soap_. 

And it’s not that Louis holds aimless grudges over strangers, no, that would be against his own personal construct of what he should and should be like. But he’s making what could be the most revolutionary move of his life and here he is – losing all his basic necessities and having a cross first encounter. Not exactly what he planned for his first station in his journey to independence. 

When Louis gets up and dusts himself off, he side-eyes the neighboring place and sees that the other man has managed to get his door opened by himself, what with ignoring Louis’ friendly, neighborly offer to help. He decides, _yeah, it’s not worth it_. 

He won’t let one unfortunate encounter ruin the rest of his stay – it would be shallow and far too inessential. So, he kicks back the door behind him, locks it, and tosses his keys onto the built-in kitchen counter. 

Despite the copious amounts of coffee he consumed that night, he could still feel traces of drowsiness flooding his system little by little. He yawns before heading over to his bathroom and preparing himself for his first official sleep in his new place. The bathroom’s wall tiles are chipped in some corners and the once-pearly texture has turned into a rough one of sorts – it’s a sign of age, of wear and tear. His mind drifts to how long the house has been standing, and all the ones who have lived here before him, if any. He thinks about the man on the other side, the one with the tucked back hair and seemingly permanent frown. Louis wonders how long he’s lived there and if he lives with anyone – it’s a fleeting thought that rests amongst all his other wild questions about this town and its people. And as he lays down on his couch to rest that night (because he’s got no mattress for his bed and he honestly couldn’t be bothered to get one until the weekend), he lists itineraries in his head, things that he wants to do before the end of the week, the month, and the year. 

He’s excited, is what he is. 

At the rise of noon, by the time the streets have gotten relatively busier and more locals have flooded the streets, Louis makes the moderate walk to his new university. It’s a small university by Key’s Bay, defined by its rich history and its impressive writing program (which is what Louis wants to pursue), which stands proudly within the outskirts of the town. He’s only visited the university once, and that was about a year ago when he sent in his papers to apply. 

He remembers falling in love with the intricately detailed structures of the buildings during his very first visit – the rustic columns that frame the grand entrances and the stone carvings on the walls. He recalls the yards of greenery that litter the grounds, adorned with homegrown shrubs and pastel-petal blooms. It’s a dream in itself, and Louis cannot wait to spend his following days engulfed in the treasury of his passions. 

So, he sits. He’s got an brown envelope in his hand and a concealed smile of excitement as he rests on the waiting area cushioned seats, patiently waiting for his name to be called out by the middle-aged woman behind the counter. “Tomlinson.”

“That’s me!” And Louis figures that maybe he said that a little too enthusiastically, which proved to be in great contrast with the stagnant aura of the room. But, he doesn’t mind. This was it – he was now closer to his dream than ever, and if he wanted to display all possible signs of excitement, then so be it. 

After what seems to be an eternity of waiting for his final papers to be processed, the door to the room swings open. A young man pads into the room, holding two thick textbooks in one hand and a backpack slung over his opposite shoulder. He’s clad in a lavender sweater, loosely knit, and his hair’s a mess of tight waves atop his head. Now, if this were the first time Louis had encountered this man, he would have had his mind spinning, drowning in nothing but the word _pretty, pretty, pretty_ over and over again because now, in this warm light, the man glows brighter. Each hint of light carefully frames his delicate features, and the man walks with a finely reserved confidence. But, unfortunately so, he recognizes the guy. His part-neighbor part-convenience store figure makes another appearance and Louis curses the universe. 

Somewhere out there, he senses the heavens (if he believed in them) having a downright play over him – watching Louis struggle with the heavy weight of his own embarrassment caused by his attempt to start conversations at a convenience store at nine in the evening, only to have them live ten steps away from each other, and now have them attend the same university and step into the same room at the same time – it’s _absurd_. 

And it’s funny because he’s come upon this man on three separate occasions and yet he doesn’t have a flying clue what his name is or what his _deal_ is, more like, and –

“Styles, Harry,” is the name being called out next by the woman who processed Louis’ papers. He hadn’t even noticed that his finished papers were already neatly lain in front of him, ready for pick-up. His mind had been too crowded by the likes of _Styles Harry_ , and what was the deal with that? What kind of first name is Styles? 

Sounds pretentious, if you ask Louis. Louis, then, grabs his papers after politely thanking the woman behind the counter. Styles (Louis now knows is his name), stands up from his seat, still silent as ever, and heads over to the space where Louis previously stood. For some peculiar reason, Louis feels his heart skip a beat, or maybe it pumped a little quicker than usual, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that an unexplained heart rush comes through him the moment Styles takes his spot – it’s childish and silly, Louis knows, but a lot of his inner sensations lately are just plain confusing. 

He still thinks Styles is an odd first name, and that their first and second encounters weren’t all that pleasant, but he’s not going to deny his impending attraction towards the boy – well, at least to the boy’s aura – Louis doesn’t mean that in some metaphysical, spiritual way, but the other man carries himself. And he carries himself well. 

“How’re you doing today, Harry?” Says the woman behind the counter. Louis picks it up faintly, and _oh_ , he thinks, feeling stupid, _yeah, Harry as a first name made much more sense_. 

Louis curses the universe once more. 

 

* * * * *

A week ago, it’s a warm cup of coffee and today, it’s a large cone of shaved ice drenched in heaping spoons of artificial bubblegum syrup – it’s a little treasure he picked up on his way back from his school campus which he considers it a reward for himself. He can’t exactly pinpoint what action of his deserved recognition, but Louis isn’t one to turn down opportunities to spoil himself. Sure, he deserves it. For _something_. 

He feels like a winner, leaning over his white balcony rail and ticking off imaginary points off the to-do list in his head – he’s already ordered in his mattress, he’s unpacked almost all his bags except for the one that had his pool of books in (the heaviest bit), and he’s managed to get his little burner working, so he’s not going hungry tonight. 

In the midst of the sensation of melting ice on his tongue and syrup staining his lips, he smells it. It’s faint but it’s present – it’s the blatant smell of a burning cigarette, newly-lit and strong. Louis holds his breath a little, repelled by the scent – it’s not exactly something he loves, so to speak. 

Following the traces of smoke in the open air, his gaze follows and settles upon the neighboring balcony. _Harry_. 

It’s the first time he’s seen full signs of Harry in the house since the other man struggled with his keys a week ago. The neighboring house isn’t exactly a whirlwind of energy, what with the rarely opened lights and the stagnant silence that constantly fills the lonely structure – it seems Harry’s always out; well, that, or he’s a creature of the dark. Nonetheless, Louis is surprised when he sees Harry leaned over his balcony as well, set in the same position as Louis, but instead of gripping onto a snow cone, he’s got a burning cigarette nestled between his fingers, the spark at the end greatly contrasting with the hues of the night. 

He’s unmoving, with the exception of his right hand which goes to and from his lips, dragging the object away and towards in smooth, almost mechanical motions. The cold wind blows a few of the man’s wayward strands of curly hair into his face, but he doesn’t flinch, nor does he move to brush it away – it’s like he’s unbothered and unfazed, numb to the distractions, to the world. 

Louis must have been staring for far too long because a large bit of his snow cone has melted, dripping onto his white sweater and pulling him out of his trance. Caught off guard, Louis looks down at the spreading stain, uttering a frantic _‘shit’_ as his elbows spread out in an attempt to wipe at the stain but instead, they accidentally knock one of Louis’ potted succulents down the balcony, where it falls a storey down and lands with a loud _crack_. 

And, Louis wouldn’t exactly call himself unlucky, but _wow_ , he thinks, _he’s just fucking everything up_. 

He peers down at the broken pot and its shattered pieces littered on the bed of grass, then he looks at his remaining line of plants. “That was my favorite one.”

Louis groans in complete disappointment at his loss. His snow cone’s long gone – it’s nothing but a sorry puddle of water and colored syrup on his narrow balcony floor, which has now taken on a faint shade of blue. _Great_. 

“Absolutely fucking fantastic,” Louis mutters to himself. Now, he’s managed to rid himself of his frozen treat, smash his favorite potted plant, and catch Harry’s attention in the worst possible way. The other man stares in Louis’ direction, puzzled by the commotion that was Louis’ unfortunate series of events – he looks intrigued, _amused_ almost, but if anything, he doesn’t let it show. He watches for a couple more seconds before he turns his head away once more, going back to his odd fixation on a certain unknown point in the distance. 

And so there Louis is, two minutes later, standing right beside the shards of broken clay and sadly staring at the mess. It’s not like he can properly clean it up now – he’s at a stunning lack of materials to do so. Louis makes a mental note right there and then to pick up some cleaning supplies at the store first thing tomorrow because as it turns out, the independent life is a lot more complicated than he thought. 

Louis turns to go back inside his house, probably mourn his plant for a good minute or so before he sleeps in disappointment, but before he does, he hears it. 

“What d’you need?”

It’s deep and subtle, barely audible amidst the howling wind. Louis barely catches who it is, and for a moment, he fears he might be hearing things now, and that is not the kind of adventure he was hoping for. But the voice came from above, particularly from the balcony of the neighboring house. 

Harry looks down at him, expression still blank and lips tightly pressed into a line, but his gaze is fixed on a certain distraught boy and nothing else. His hands are free of any object, and his arms now rest crossed on the railing, his fingers tucked behind his arms. 

“Me?” Louis clarifies because _really?_ And to that, Harry merely nods, no words to follow up his former question. 

“Oh, uh,” Louis says, head still tilted up to look at Harry. “Can’t pick it up.”

Harry just raises a brow in response, notably confused. Louis catches the other man’s expression vaguely, and to that he adds, “I’m new.”

Somewhere in the deepest crevices of Louis’ brain, he’s slapping himself internally, repeatedly. For some unexplainable reason, senseless things love to pour out of Louis’ mouth whenever he comes into contact with attractive guys with absent stares, one in particular, and as always, the world inexplicably pieces together scenarios that make Louis look and sound absolutely out of it. 

“Established,” is all that Harry utters. 

Quite honestly, Louis doesn’t know what to make of the situation because here Harry is, offering help in his own, strange way and Louis is here as well, persistently making a huge fool out of himself. And yet, no progress occurs – both of them are trapped in their own personal spheres of silence and questions, and it’s difficult. 

“Yeah, well,” Louis starts up again, hoping to salvage the dying conversation that he maybe wouldn’t even consider a conversation in the first place. “Just moved in, realized I was fresh out of cleaning supplies.”

Harry doesn’t budge, nor does he pitch in a helping hand or a useful suggestion. He just nods, and Louis couldn’t be more confused. All Harry does is remain still in his initial position and bite his lip lightly, almost like he’s stuck in deep thought, contemplating his actions or rather, his lack of it. 

“So, uh, I was gonna pick some up tomorrow.” Louis drags out his words, hoping to elicit some kind of response from the other man, but he’s unsuccessful in his shallow attempts. “You know, at the store.”

When he feels that Harry’s not going to contribute pieces into the conversation anymore and he might as well be shouting out profanities into an empty void, Louis walks forward, wanting to rush into his house and forget about this horrible and incredibly awkward fiasco. 

“I have some,” Harry calls out the moment Louis reaches his front steps. Louis huffs, then uncontrollably stomps onto his front lawn once more. 

“Wonderful,” Louis says, and he doesn’t mean for his word to be laced with sarcasm and a hint of annoyance, but it just is – could be because it’s fucking freezing outside and he’s been out here for what seems like fifteen minutes, or it could just be because of this fragmented conversation he’s been having with this questionable character on the balcony. 

Harry taps his fingers onto the metal railing, creating a soft clanking sound which accompanies his even softer voice, “Mm-hm.”

Louis wants to laugh. That, because he’s completely stumped. “Does that mean I can borrow some? Or are you just messing with me?”

Straightforward, that’s how it should be – how it _should have been_. He’s had enough of aimlessly circling around vague dialogue, and he would much rather have an answer to a question that was never really there in the first place. Because the truth is – Louis is freezing cold and all he’s got on is his flimsy stained sweater and all he really wants to do is to change out of his messy clothes and tangle himself up in his fresh sheets and fade into a dreamless sleep and _not_ think about the awfully beautiful but painfully absurd man on the balcony. 

Besides, he formally starts his term at the university tomorrow and being the overachiever that he is (he likes to claim this title), Louis wants to be properly rested and fully energized for his big day, of sorts. So, if Harry on the balcony over here would just give him a direct and definite response, that would be most lovely. 

“I can bring some down,” is all Harry says before he disappears behind his glass doors. And there Louis is, staring at a now-empty balcony, apparently waiting for the other boy to bring down some cleaning supplies like the proper neighbors they are. Sure enough, not longer than two minutes later, Harry comes straight out of his front door, clutching onto a cloth bag and edging towards Louis. 

Harry doesn’t lift his head up one bit; instead, he purely hands over the bag to Louis whilst keeping his gaze trained at his shoes. It’s like he’s avoiding eye contact with Louis, and Louis is perplexed, but he doesn’t question it. At this point, he’s just a glad that they’ve both managed to establish at least one friendly interaction since they first met, despite how difficult it was to reach this point.

“Thanks, man,” Louis extends out his gratitude as he accepts the cloth bag from the taller man. “Bit unfortunate what happened, right?”

Louis tries to lighten up the situation a little, he can’t help it – he’s embarrassed that Harry might have caught him staring at him through their very own balconies, and he’s equally as ashamed about the catastrophic series of falls that caught Harry’s attention. He’s only trying to lighten things up. 

“That was my favorite plant,” Louis pitches in, although he doesn’t exactly know why he’s still talking. “His name was Dino.”

Harry looks up at Louis for the first time since he came down and now, in the deep haze, Louis can see the hesitancy engraved in Harry’s eyes which are a rich, rich, rich shade of green and _wow_ , Louis has never seen that color before. It’s the fascinating color of jade, adorned with specks of forest green – like the fusion of all things artificial and pure. Those eyes look down at Louis with a kind of _blankness_ and Louis doesn’t know what to make of it. His mouth’s probably set agape, and he could be tearing up a bit like the sap he is, but it almost feels like he knows nothing at this point. All he knows is that he’s completely enthralled by some near-stranger’s eyes and he can’t snap himself out of it. 

“I mean, he’s called _Dino_ not because the plant looks like a dinosaur or anything,” Louis fumbles over his words. “Not like I’m _assuming_ I know what dinosaurs look like. Because I don't. I mean, if you think about it, I don’t think any of us really know what dinosaurs look like.”

He’s rambling now and Louis wants to hold up his hand and manually pinch his lips shut with his own fingers because he just can’t stop talking. “All we have are fossils.”

It’s so silent that all Louis hears is the steady sound of Harry’s breathing – slow and shallow, and Louis blames his extremely talkative self and his inability to hold a decent conversation without rambling on about the mysteries of the world, of _fucking prehistoric times_ , but he’s gone and done it now, and Harry is watching him with a studying gaze, like Louis is some specimen in the lab and Harry’s just trying to figure him out. 

“Crazy,” Louis remarks because they’re suddenly closer than they were before and he figures both of them are just noticing now. Louis’ cheeks are gradually heating up at the proximity and he doesn’t mean to be a blushing mess, but he is. He’s not even sure why – he’s literally just met Harry and their first “friendly” interaction was over _cleaning supplies_. Not exactly the most romantic set of circumstances, if you ask Louis. 

It’s just unfair how Harry’s golden skin glistens beneath the soft moonlight, and how his unruly hair’s a tousled mess atop his head and yet he still looks better than anything Louis has ever witnessed. It’s all just not fair. 

“Just return them whenever,” Harry says with such a casual vacancy that Louis is left dumbfounded. With that, Harry walks away, back to his own home. 

And Louis – well, Louis has got cleaning supplies in his hands and bad case of infatuation all over.


End file.
